The Battlemage

by Taran Matharu

  Both dwarves were looking apprehensive.

  “I bloody hate flying,” Cress groaned. “Especially on a demon that grew his wings only a few hours ago.”

  She patted Ignatius’s neck apprehensively, and the Drake unleashed a deep bark of encouragement, making her flinch.

  “Let’s decide exactly where we’re going first,” Othello said, giving Lysander and Ignatius a wide berth. “I’d rather not have a debate up there, where the Wyverns might spot us. Plus I’d rather spend as little time in the air as possible.”

  “Now that we have an ample supply of petals, we need to find Hominum’s part of the ether,” Fletcher said, more to himself than anyone else. “And hope to heavens we spot a portal when we do.”

  “Of course,” Othello said, nodding grimly, “But there’s no way of knowing which direction we should go in, and even if we did, we could fly right over it and not know it.”

  “Well, we know that unlike the orcish part of the ether, ours is near the ether’s edge, bordering the deadlands,” Sylva mused. “There are volcanoes near ours too. I think our best bet is to go back toward where we found the petals; there were more volcanoes that way.”

  “Back toward the Wyverns?” Cress groaned. “We just got away from them.”

  “Well, volcanoes are the only thing I can think of, unless anyone has any better ideas,” Sylva replied.

  “We also know there isn’t an ocean near Hominum’s part of the ether,” Fletcher added. “Another reason to go Sylva’s way.”

  “And it’s not like heading over the ocean is a good idea: We have no idea how large it is—it could go on for days,” Sylva said, motioning down the lagoon. There was a wide outlet where she was pointing, and Fletcher knew that it led out to the vast body of water they had seen before.

  “Well, it can’t be that big, what with the Shrikes,” Othello said. “Not that we’d want to follow them anyway.”

  “Shrikes?” Sylva asked.

  “Didn’t I mention it?” Othello said, surprised. “We saw a bloody great big flock of Shrikes the day after you and Fletcher went looking for the Euryale petals. Luckily they flew right by us and headed over the ocean.”

  “I’d rather not follow in their footsteps, as it were, especially not on these death traps,” Cress added, looking pointedly at Lysander and Ignatius.

  Sylva narrowed her eyes.

  “Sorry, just a joke,” Cress said, holding up her hands in apology.

  “No, it’s not that,” Sylva said. “I’m thinking.”

  She chewed on her lip, then closed her eyes completely.

  “How soon after the tournament does the next year start at Vocans?” Sylva asked, her head bowed with concentration.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Cress exclaimed.

  “There’s not much of a break really,” Othello answered, ignoring Cress. “What with the war on, they time it so that the next year of teaching starts almost immediately. Maybe a week or two? Only, our tournament was delayed this year because of the Anvil attacks, so Cress should technically have started her second year a few weeks ago.”

  “Even better. When Captain Lovett took us into the ether, we were just a few weeks into the academic year too, correct?” Sylva said, holding up a finger. “We’d only had a few lessons with her.”

  “Right…,” Fletcher agreed, still unsure about the point she was trying to make.

  “And Valens was attacked by a Shrike. Didn’t we learn in our demonology lessons that Shrikes migrate across our part of the ether around that time? As in, the time of year we’re also in right now?”

  It hit Fletcher like a ton of bricks. The Shrikes. They could be heading toward Hominum’s part of the ether.

  “Sylva, you’re a bloody genius,” Fletcher yelled, grinning from ear to ear.

  Because they were going home.

  CHAPTER

  19

  THE OCEAN SEEMED ENDLESS, so vast that after an hour of flying all sight of land had disappeared. There was no sun to navigate from; their only guide was the strange inner compass that all demons possessed, which pulled the creatures instinctively toward the center of the ether.

  Ignatius and Lysander flew as high and fast as they dared, wary of exhausting themselves but eager to catch up with the Shrikes. Too fast and they might tire swiftly, then drown in the ocean before they found land. Too slow and their only chance of reaching Hominum’s part of the ether would be gone forever … or at least, until the next year. Fletcher didn’t even want to contemplate that.

  Instead, he tried to live in the moment and enjoy the exhilaration of flying. His world had become filled with the tang of sea salt, the crash of waves and the dull thrum of Ignatius’s beating wings.

  The riders began a game to pass the time, attempting to be the first to spot demons in the dark blue expanse. Fletcher had started it when he pointed out a pod of Encantados, leaping in the waves. They were pink, dolphin-like creatures with webbed claws on their four legs. Their appearance as quadrupedal dolphins was the same as a Nanaue’s similarity to a shark, or the rare Akhlut’s resemblance of a killer whale. Cress had groaned with frustration when she saw the Encantados, for they were beautiful creatures and immensely rare. But there was no time to stop.

  They scanned the sea and horizon endlessly as the hours ticked by, but only saw one other demon. Even then, it was just the faint outline of a lone Trunko, a species that had the body of a white whale, except for the long trunk on its snout. It poked it out of the water to take in air, and they had learned in their demonology lessons that the appendage was designed to protect the demons from the flying predators of the ether, so that they did not expose their backs by breaching the surface.

  Still they flew, even as the light faded. This was a different sort of darkness, accompanied by the gentle crash of the waves below and tempered by the warm embrace of his mother’s arms. Sleep, apparently so easy in the deepest, darkest Abyss, was difficult now, for he was suddenly beset by the irrational fear of falling. This was compounded by a sudden lurch in the air, as Ignatius briefly nodded off midflight.

  So Fletcher dozed and woke in fits and starts, until the sky filled with pink light and morning had returned once more. In the new glow, the Shrikes were nowhere to be seen, but the shadow of a distant land bruised the skyline. It grew larger with every hour, for Lysander and Ignatius beat the air with new purpose, desperate for rest.

  But as they neared, Fletcher’s hope faded. This land was not filled with the jungles of Hominum’s territory. It was a desert, stretching out so far that it almost met the horizon, broken only by the thinnest line of green in the distance, where the sand ended and the jungle began. In the far distance, a sandstorm billowed across the blue heavens, staining them a muddy orange.

  It felt to Fletcher as if they had left one ocean and entered another, for the land beneath was undulated in dunes that appeared as static waves of fine cinnamon dust. The sky was so oppressively bright and hot that Fletcher’s arms itched with prickles of sweat.

  Then, when Fletcher began to think the desert would never end, the green edge of the jungle swam into view, at first a thin strip of green, then an unbroken swath that extended into the horizon.

  They saw no Shrikes, but swarms of Mites flew by here and there, and there was even a moment of panic as the shadow of a large demon passed above them. Luckily, it was nothing but a pelican-like Ropen, the leathery-winged, tooth-beaked beast appearing almost comical with a pointy, elongated crest at the back of its head.

  Fletcher was pleased to see the telltale columns of smoke in the distance as they made their descent. Volcanoes, just like in Hominum’s territory. He would almost have hoped they had reached their journey’s end, but remembered that there was no desert or ocean near Hominum’s part of the ether. It would be another day at least.

  When the team landed, Ignatius and Lysander collapsed in a heap—there was no chance of traveling more, though there was still daylight left. Instead, they set up c
amp, cutting branches from the trees, then sharpening and staking them in the soil around their camp. It would do little to deter a predator, but it might be enough to keep smaller, more curious demons from approaching them in the night. As such, Athena was summoned to keep watch on a high branch, for the Gryphowl was well rested after being so long infused within Fletcher.

  The jerky supply was still plentiful, though it was graying around the edges and tasted like sour, chewy leather. They ate it regardless, toasting it on the campfire on green twigs to give it a better flavor.

  Ignatius and Lysander had gone to sleep together, their tired bodies draped over each other like newborn puppies. It was a well-deserved rest, and the demons had been given the lion’s share of the remaining jerky before they passed out. Fletcher only hoped that the two demons would recover by morning.

  “We’ll have to move on, first thing tomorrow,” Fletcher murmured, poking the fire moodily. “There’s been no sign of the Shrike flock; it must be farther ahead.”

  “Aye, they were definitely traveling in this direction though, and we know they tend to keep along the ether’s edges, which is roughly where we are.” Othello’s words were positive, but his tone was dull and listless.

  “It could be a different flock,” Sylva said.

  “What?” Cress asked, looking up as if she had only just caught Sylva’s words.

  “Another flock to the one that passes through Hominum’s territory. We have no idea if there are different flocks with different migration patterns around the ether. The ether is massive, and Shrikes appear to be relatively common.”

  “Why didn’t you say this yesterday?” Othello groaned, burying his head in his hands.

  “Did you have a better idea?” Sylva snapped back. “At least we have a direction to go in!”

  “Guys, this isn’t helping,” Fletcher said, holding up his hands. “It might not be the same flock, but it might very well be too. We’ll keep following them for now.”

  “Following what?” Cress grumbled. “We don’t even know where they are.”

  “Sorry it didn’t turn out the way you hoped,” Sylva said, her voice tinged with sarcasm. She stood and went over to the satchel beside Ignatius’s sleeping form.

  “I’m going to see if the growth spell still works on these flowers,” she said over her shoulder.

  There was a glow of green and a gasp of joy from Sylva. She turned and held up a freshly bloomed plant, which she plucked and showed with her hand.

  “Well, if we are going to be here awhile, you might as well grow the rest of them before they wither and die,” Sylva said to the others. “I’d rather not take another trip to a volcano. Come on, chop chop!”

  Fletcher and the others reluctantly went to join her, and soon the camp flashed green again, the spells draining the little mana the team had recovered on their long journey across the ocean. There were petals aplenty—if they kept the plants secure, they would have a lifetime supply.

  Light was fading fast, as was the heat of the day. Soon the team was huddled under the Catoblepas pelt for warmth, with their feet to the fire. Before, the nights had been dark and oppressive, the only light being small wyrdlights to guide them to the bushes so that they could relieve themselves. But after traveling so far across the ocean, Fletcher doubted that the orcs would have been able to track them this far. So they slept by the crackle of the fire, casting their little camp in a warm orange glow.

  * * *

  Fletcher woke, realizing he had gulped down too much water after their dry flight through the desert. He didn’t want to move from his warm cocoon, but his bladder was uncomfortably full and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep without emptying it. The first glimmerings of dawn were staining the sky, but it wouldn’t wait. He sighed and wriggled out from beneath the pelt, careful not to wake his mother and Othello, who were sleeping on either side of him.

  Athena hooted softly above as he pushed his way through the barrier of branches on the border of their camp and took a few steps into the darkness. He was wary of going so far from the camp, especially when they hadn’t explored any of the surrounding jungle, but it had to be done.

  There was a thorny tree among the bushes a hundred feet away that looked promising, so Fletcher made his way toward it, thankful that there was enough residual light from the campfire and the early morning sky to reach the broad trunk without a bright wyrdlight. He stopped and began to unbutton his breeches.

  But something felt wrong. It was too quiet. When they had ridden Sheldon, the jungles had been filled with the rustle of small demons, distant hoots and the occasional coughing roar of a night predator. Now, there was barely the stirring of the wind. Something dripped onto his cheek, wet and heavy as a raindrop. He touched his hand to it, and it smeared red across his fingers.

  Fletcher lifted his hand and produced a wyrdlight. The blue globe spun gently on the end of his finger as he pulsed mana into it, until the ball was as large as his fist. Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat as the full horror of what was before him became apparent in the spreading pool of light. Death had visited the jungles.

  Dozens of demons were skewered on the thorns of the tree. Directly above was a dead Jackalope, a rabbitlike demon with small, sharpened antlers. Its rib cage was open and empty, and the eyes had been plucked out of its gaping skull. Beside it, the remains of a Mite’s carapace had been spiked there, leaving nothing but an empty shell.

  Fletcher turned, his heart pounding with horror.

  He began to run.

  CHAPTER

  20

  THE TEAM STOOD BEFORE THE TREE, inspecting the macabre display as dawn spread across the sky. It was a gruesome sight; though in the new morning glow it looked far less sinister than the ethereal, blue-tinged spectacle that Fletcher had seen a half hour earlier.

  “Well, this is great news,” Sylva mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.”

  “This? This is great news?” Cress exclaimed, turning to Sylva in confused horror.

  “Yep,” Othello mumbled, turning back to their camp, where the crackling campfire beckoned. “Wake me in half an hour.”

  “Am I going mad, or are they?” Cress asked, turning on Fletcher.

  But Fletcher already knew what they were talking about, a forgotten fact swimming to the forefront of his mind. It was no surprise he had not immediately recalled it, for it had been taught during a lesson Fletcher had missed, pulled out of class so he could show Dame Fairhaven Baker’s journal.

  “Do you know how Shrikes got their name?” Fletcher asked, scratching his chin. “I just remembered.”

  “Err … not really,” Cress replied. “To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention in my demonology lessons; I was too focused on winning the tournament.”

  “Well, they’re named after a real animal. There’s a bird species native to the borders of the Akhad Desert known as a Shrike. It has a habit of impaling their prey, usually insects or lizards, onto thorns. It’s so it can hold its catch in place while it feeds. Demonic Shrikes have the same feeding habits, so the name stuck.”

  “So, it means we haven’t lost the Shrikes,” Cress said, understanding dawning on her.

  “That’s right,” Fletcher said, eyeing the dripping remains and resisting the urge to shudder. “We just follow the corpses.”

  * * *

  Knowing that they were so close to the Shrikes put the team in a grim mood. They were in danger now, not only from the Shrikes but the predators and carrion eaters that followed in the flock’s wake. The deadly Wendigo was perhaps the most feared of these, its penchant for corpses giving it a stench to match its favorite source of nourishment.

  From the freshness of the carcasses, Fletcher knew that the Shrikes would be roosting in the trees ahead, so they sent Pria to scout first, and approached carefully on foot, so as not to encounter the deadly creatures.

  On its own, a single male Shrike was dangerous, with the wingspan of an albatross, the tal
ons of an eagle and the cruelly hooked beak of a vulture. But when they migrated, the demons would band together in an unstoppable flock, decimating the populations in the path of their migration.

  Most fearsome of all were the Shrike Matriarchs, the rarer, maternal leaders of the brood. In a strange reversal, the male Shrike bore a crest and wattle like that of a hen, while the brood mother’s own were fully developed, flaring from their heads as a rooster’s did. Twice as large as their male counterparts, they were capable of swooping down and plucking a juvenile Canid from the ground.

  The team’s first sighting of the Shrikes was the next morning, when the flock broke through the canopy to continue their migration, having stripped the nearby jungle of all living creatures. The team flew after them—but only when the demons were no more than distant dots on the horizon, using Athena’s keen sight to keep track.

  Day turned to night, turned to day once more. At dusk, the team settled on the trail of the roosting demons, camping as they had done before. They ate their petals and the pitiful remnants of the jerky, supplementing their diet with the edible leftovers that the Shrikes had abandoned. On the next night it rained, and they were soaked but grateful, stretching out the Catoblepas pelt to catch the water and refill their flasks.

  So it went, the jungle rolling beneath them in a seemingly endless carpet of green. Fletcher had never imagined such a sight, for it stretched from horizon to horizon on a flat terrain that was devoid of landmarks, rivers or clearings. Only to their far right was any semblance of a break from the trees: a thin red line denoting where the jungle ended and the deadlands began.

  On the fourth evening they dined on the haunches of a freshly killed Yale, a demon that looked like a cross between an antelope and a billy goat, with a curved pair of horns that could swivel at will. The beast tasted like aged mutton, tough but flavorsome, and far tastier than the remains of their poorly smoked jerky.

  It was that night that they saw the first carnivores that prowled behind the flock, skirting the edges of their makeshift barricade in the darkness, attracted by the light and scent of cooking meat.